


Waiting For You

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known that Sherlock was coming, just like he couldn’t remember not knowing that Mummy’s eyes were brown and Daddy’s were blue. One day, there would be Sherlock and he would be John’s family, and his best friend.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Huge thanks to Emmy and Pumpkinspiced for betaing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting For You

 

When John was six, his teacher asked him to draw a picture of his family. He sat down and carefully drew Mummy, with wild brown hair and a purple dress; Daddy, with yellow hair that stuck straight up and a red shirt that went down to his knees; Harry, half the height and with an unhappy mouth that spread beyond her face, and a thin man with swirling black curls and a long, dark coat.

When Mrs. Jackson came over to John’s part of the classroom, she bent over the picture and frowned. “Who’s this? Your uncle?”

“No, that’s Sherlock,” said John.

That only made her frown more. When Mummy came to pick John up after school, Mrs. Jackson took her aside for a quiet word that made Mummy send a worried glance over at where John was waiting for her.

When they got home, Mummy asked him about Sherlock too.

“She said to draw my family,” said John.

“Yes, John,” said Mummy. “But we don’t have a Sherlock in our family, do we?”

“Not yet,” said John. “He’s coming later.”

He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known that Sherlock was coming, just like he couldn’t remember not knowing that Mummy’s eyes were brown and Daddy’s were blue. One day, there would be Sherlock and he would be John’s family, and his best friend. He didn’t know more than that. There was just the vague shape of his future with Sherlock in it, as hazy as when he tried to remember things that had happened when he was really young.

Mummy didn’t like that answer and she didn’t put the picture up with John’s other drawings on the fridge. The next time John drew his family, he left Sherlock out, although he did put a purple squiggle in the corner to stand in for him.

 

When John was eleven, he was told to write an essay about the future. He wrote about Sherlock, about how he was going to solve crimes and run through London and blow things up doing chemistry. Sitting down and concentrating on Sherlock brought things John hadn’t yet seen about him into focus, so that he managed to fill three whole pages in his writing book. Some of it he wasn’t sure about, but he did his best. He knew Sherlock definitely played an instrument, but he couldn’t work out which one. It must be a guitar, he thought. All the cool bands had guitars in them. Maybe Sherlock played songs like Bon Jovi’s.

When Mr. Hadfield marked it he only gave it a six, even though John had used his best handwriting and had even looked up how to spell ‘experiment’. Underneath the mark, Mr. Hadfield wrote ‘This doesn’t fit the topic. Please make sure you keep to the homework set.’

John frowned and looked over at Neil Turner’s essay. It seemed to be about rocket ships and flying cars, which was stupid. That wasn’t the future; that was just a story. John’s essay was going to be _true_.

 

When John was sixteen, his first girlfriend asked him if he believed in soulmates. They were lying together on John’s bed and John was distracted with wondering if she’d let him slide his hand up under her top if he kissed her enough first.

It seemed a silly question, even though he’d realised over the years that his bone-deep certainty about his future with Sherlock wasn’t something that other people seemed to experience about their own futures. Surely people must sense at least something about their soulmate, though?

“Yeah, course,” he answered, his mind still mostly focused on what her bra might feel like. “Mine’s called Sherlock.”

Katie pulled away with a betrayed look, jolting the mattress. “What?” she said. “Sherlock? Who the hell is that?”

John got the sudden, sickening feeling that he’d made a social faux-pas.

“He’s a bloke I’m going to meet,” he said, sitting up so that he could reach out for her. “I’m going to-”

Katie wasn’t listening. “A bloke?” she exclaimed, knocking John’s hand away. “I didn’t know you were gay!”

“I’m not,” said John with surprise. He and Sherlock were going to be best friends, not boyfriends. Weren’t they? 

Suddenly John wasn’t sure. Your soulmate was meant to be your lover, weren’t they? He just hadn’t realised it when he was a little kid, trying to define Sherlock to himself for the first time.

She clambered off the bed and John realised he was never going to get a chance to put his hand up her top now. “You’re a bastard,” she snarled at John. “How can you be with me if you’ve got some _bloke_ as well?”

She stormed out of the room and John collapsed back onto his bed with a sigh. Apparently, mentioning Sherlock to anyone was a bad idea. From now on he’d keep his mouth shut.

 

When John was twenty-three, he became Doctor Watson. He went out to celebrate and ended up in a pub that was flooded with excited graduates.

He found himself explaining the next six months of his future over and over again, describing how the Army already had it completely mapped out for him, so when Kyle asked him and he started on the spiel for the fifth time, he was only half paying attention to the conversation. The other half was on the crowd around them, keeping half an eye out for someone more interesting than Kyle to talk to. Instead, his attention was arrested by a figure pushing through the crowd to his left.

The man was slender with dark, curling hair and was wearing an expensive-looking purple shirt. John was moving before he could engage his brain, ignoring Kyle’s concerned voice behind him.

He chased the man out of the pub into the street, where he caught his shoulder and pulled him around, his mouth already forming, “Sher-”

It wasn’t him. 

John had no idea how he knew. He had only a vague idea of Sherlock’s general appearance and no mental picture of his face at all, but he knew that this man was not him.

“Are you okay?” asked the stranger.

John let go of him, shaking his head. “Thought you were someone else.” He sounded dazed, even to himself. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” said the man, turning away.

John watched him go and then glanced back at the pub full of chattering new doctors. His earlier euphoria was now completely drowned out by a crushing sense of disappointment and he wasn’t sure he could stand to go back inside.

He headed home instead, trying to tell himself that it was too much to expect that he’d finally start his Army training and meet Sherlock at the same time. It couldn’t be much longer though, surely? He was starting his adult life now; he must be due to meet his soulmate soon so that he could spend it with him.

 

When John was thirty-six, he was shot. 

He was just outside the field hospital at Camp Bastion, trying to get to safety during an attack, when a stray bullet hit his shoulder, sending him crashing backwards to the ground.

“Medic!” he heard someone shout, but it seemed a very long way away. The world narrowed down to the patch of bright sky directly overhead, the gritty sand beneath him, and the pain radiating from his shoulder.

_Not yet,_ he thought. _Please, God, let me live. I haven’t met Sherlock yet._

There was a face bending over his, blocking out the sky.

“Watson? Watson! Stay with me! You’re going to be fine. Hold on for me while I patch you up, yeah?”

It was Murray, John realised. Good, that was good. He was RAMC too – he’d keep John alive. He couldn’t die without meeting Sherlock, not after he’d been waiting so long.

Murray was doing something that made the pain in his shoulder radiate out across his whole body. The world started to go white around the edges and John sucked in a mouthful of air against the panic. No, not yet!

“Sherlock,” he tried to say, but it was too rasping and faint for him to be sure it had come out as more than air.

“John, you’re going to be fine,” said Murray but John knew what that particular reassuring tone meant when it came from a medic.

“Yeah,” said John. He had to be fine. “For Sherlock.”

“Who?” asked Murray, and then, “No! John, stay with me! Tell me about Sherlock. Come on, talk to me.”

“He’s brilliant,” said John. “He’s going to- going to be my family.” Everything was fading away. The sounds of the attack had grown fainter as the insurgents were fought off, but now Murray’s voice seemed to be moving away as well.

“John, stay strong,” he said. “We’ll fix you up. You’ll see Sherlock again, I promise, just stay strong.”

“Not ‘again’,” murmured John as the world whited out. “Still need to see him for the first time.”

When John woke up, he was in Selly Oak Hospital. Murray was still in Afghanistan, a thousand miles away, but he sent John an email once the news of John’s recovery made it that far.

_So glad to hear you made it, mate. It’s weird out here without you. Get well soon, so you can come back and win more of my wages off me at poker._

_Tried to contact Sherlock for you, but couldn’t find any record of his contact details. Got to say, you kept pretty quiet about him. Half the women here are going to be devastated when they find out! Although I’m pretty sure you already made it through the other half, so maybe it’s time you found someone to settle down with._

_Take care,_

_Murray_

While John was staring at the screen, trying to work out what he could possibly say about Sherlock that would make sense, the doctor came around to see him.

“I’m sorry, Captain Watson,” he said. “Some of the nerve damage will never completely heal. I’ve recommended you for a medical discharge.”

When he’d gone, John spent three hours staring at nothing and wondering what was left to him if he wasn’t Captain Watson anymore. The only thing he had was Sherlock, who was still nothing more than a handful of fuzzy images and a burning belief. He didn’t even know that he would ever meet him; the way his life was going, it seemed unlikely. And what would Sherlock think of John if they did meet now? He didn’t exactly have anything to offer while he was stumbling about with a cane.

An hour later, John shut the laptop screen without typing a word.

 

When John was thirty-seven, Mike Stamford told him he knew someone else looking for a flatmate. John went with him to Barts to meet the man but he couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. It felt like everything had ground to a halt since he’d been shot and he wasn’t sure a flatshare was going to help with that at all.

He walked into the lab and there was Sherlock. 

John stopped still and gaped at him. He’d never had more than a vague idea of dark curls and long limbs when he tried to picture Sherlock, but seeing him in person was like watching a developing photograph swim into focus, one John had been there to see taken. Of _course_ that was what Sherlock looked like. How else could he have looked? 

Holy shit, it was Sherlock, actual Sherlock, right in front of him and a hundred percent real.

Sherlock looked up, but barely spared John a glance before he turned his focus onto Mike. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

_He doesn’t recognise me,_ thought John. Even though he’d spent years being very aware that other people didn’t know about their soulmates like he did, he’d never for one second thought that Sherlock wouldn’t recognise him once they finally met. One of the first things he’d forseen about him was that he was a genius, after all.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” asked Mike.

_He prefers to text,_ thought John. He hadn’t known that before now, but the knowledge fell into place like a piece fitting into a puzzle. The older he got, the more he knew about Sherlock, as if he was remembering more about him as he got closer to meeting him. Now that Sherlock was in front of him, he wondered if that meant he was going to know everything about him before it happened. He hoped not – he’d like some surprises.

Sherlock said “I prefer to text.”

The sensation of having his thoughts spoken out loud was dizzying, and John had to take in a deep breath.

“Sorry. It’s in my coat,” said Mike.

John pulled out his own phone, the one he still thought of as Harry’s. “Here. Use mine.”

Sherlock finally looked at him properly, although it was only with the politely-surprised look you give a stranger who is doing you a favour. “Oh. Thank you.”

“This is an old friend of mine,” said Mike. “John Watson.”

John waited a moment to see if his name prompted any recognition, but Sherlock was distracted with sending his text. He didn’t even look up as he asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The question echoed oddly inside John’s head, as if they were the words he’d been waiting his whole life to hear, finally falling into place and setting him onto the course he had always been meant for.

“Sorry?” he managed, breathlessly. How had Sherlock known that? Was he remembering things about John after all, but without realising what he was doing?

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” repeated Sherlock. He glanced up at John with a smugly pleased look, as if John’s reaction were exactly what he’d hoped for.

_He does this a lot,_ thought John. So much for Sherlock knowing who he was. _He likes surprising people. He’s showing off._

“Afghanistan,” he confirmed, and then added, “Sorry, how did you know-?” because if Sherlock wanted to show off, then John was going to give him the chance to. Something about the way Sherlock did it was like a peacock displaying his feathers, and John very much wanted the chance to admire them.

Besides, he had absolutely no idea how Sherlock had worked that out and he wanted to know, and, more, he wanted to hear Sherlock tell him, rather than have the information fall into his head as if from nowhere. He wanted to hear Sherlock explain everything to him.

Before Sherlock could do that, they were interrupted by the arrival of a woman carrying a cup of coffee. John clenched his jaw with frustration. This was his moment – their moment, although Sherlock didn’t seem to know that. Everyone else should just clear out and give them space for it. Maybe then Sherlock would concentrate on John enough to see what John already knew.

_How can he know about Afghanistan, but not me?_ he wondered. It all seemed so clear to John and yet Sherlock hadn’t bothered to give him more than the briefest glance.

“Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you,” said Sherlock.

Sherlock handed John’s phone back, but his attention was still on Molly. “What happened to the lipstick?”

“It wasn’t working for me,” she said.

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now,” said Sherlock, turning away with the coffee.

Molly made a sort of grimace. _He meant that as a compliment_ , thought John. No-one else would tell that from the way Sherlock said it, but he did. It was heady, knowing that he knew Sherlock better than almost anyone else already, even though they’d just met.

“Okay,” said Molly and escaped from the room.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked John.

John blinked. Not a guitar, then. He let his teenage dreams of a best friend who played the guitar fall away. Good thing he hadn’t actually tried to learn the drums, back when he’d daydreamed about being part of an internationally-renowned rock band and tried to make it part of what he knew about Sherlock.

“I could learn to love it,” he said.

Sherlock glanced up at him as if John had gone off script and he was trying to work out why.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John nodded. “I think we’ll be okay,” he said. “I suspect we’ll have rather a lot in common, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced at Mike. “What have you said to him about me?”

Mike was giving John a long, puzzled look. “Not a word,” he said. “Nothing beyond that you’re looking for a flatmate. I thought you were best experienced rather than described.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched at that.

“I didn’t think I’d even mentioned your name,” added Mike.

John ignored him. “You need an assistant,” he said to Sherlock. Everything in his head was slotting into place, and he could feel the right thing to say as if it was scrolling across the inside of his head on an autocue. “I think I’d rather ‘colleague’, though.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Did Mycroft send you?”

“Who?” asked John.

Sherlock shook his head abruptly. “This isn’t-”

This wasn’t working. John felt frustration begin to build up in his chest. It felt sickeningly familiar from the last few months stuck in a grey, empty flat, living a grey, empty life. He wasn’t going to let this moment slip him by, not if he could help it. Maybe if he just pushed Sherlock a bit further; he had to _know_. What was the use in John knowing if Sherlock didn’t?

“Sherlock,” he said, relishing the feel of the name in his mouth after so many years of pretending he didn’t know it. “Take a breath and let yourself feel this. I’m John. John Watson.”

Sherlock paused and then actually did as John said. For a moment John thought it was going to be enough as a spark of recognition bloomed in his eyes, but then Sherlock shook his head and the moment died.

John let out a frustrated noise between his teeth. “Forget it,” he said, tiredly. Given how the rest of his life was going, of course Sherlock didn’t recognise him. And now he probably thought John was a complete nutter to boot.

Sherlock gave him a long, considering look, and then picked up his coat and started to put it on. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. ” He put his scarf on while John was still blinking, unable to believe he hadn’t blown it.

_Intrigued by me,_ he thought. Well, as long as Sherlock found him interesting, he’d be paying attention. If they truly were destined to be as close as John had always known they were, then that should be all they needed to start their friendship.

“221B Baker Street,” added Sherlock, heading for the door. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

He left with John still staring after him, unable to believe what had just happened.

“What the hell was all that?” asked Mike.

“I’ve no idea,” said John, and a smile spread across his face. Sherlock was just as he’d always known he’d be, and finally more than just a daydream. Tomorrow was going to be the start of a whole new chapter in John’s life.

 

When John was thirty-seven, he shot a man across an alleyway to save his soulmate’s life. 

He disappeared from the crime scene as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t stop himself from going back as soon as he’d judged it was safe. 

Spending the last few hours with Sherlock had been more than enough to make him fall, completely, giddily in love with him. Even if all he ever had was his friendship, there would never be anyone else for him.

He waited outside the police tape, trying to look bland and uninteresting while taking in every detail of Sherlock that he could. He was wrapped in a blanket and sat in the back of an ambulance, but he didn’t appear to be hurt. The tight, desperate knot in John’s chest dissolved.

Sherlock was saying something to the police inspector that involved broad gestures but halfway through, his gaze snagged on John and he faltered.

John gave him a tight smile, hoping he wasn’t about to get arrested.

Sherlock sharply turned back to the inspector, pulling at the blanket. John felt his back straighten as he shook the policeman off and headed straight for John. 

Right. Time to find out just how much Sherlock could see in him with that all-knowing gaze. Even if he still hadn’t seen the only thing John needed him to realise, maybe he’d see enough now to put him on the right track.

“Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful,” he said.

Sherlock gave him a little smile that spoke of secrets between them. John’s heart leapt into his throat. 

“Good shot,” he said.

John felt caught in his gaze for a moment and then let the pretence go with a smile of his own and a ducked head. “Yeah, that’s true,” he acknowledged.

Sherlock’s smile widened and John found himself caught in his eyes, beaming back without any care for where they were.

After a moment Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh!” he said, and then, “No, it’s not. It’s-” He stopped himself and stared at John as if he was looking at a unicorn, or something equally impossible and magical. “John?” he asked incredulously. “Not- no. That’s not possible.”

John held himself very still, barely daring to breath. 

“What isn’t?” he asked, softly.

“John,” said Sherlock. “I drew you. When I was a child. But I can’t- that can’t be possible.”

“It’s happening,” said John. “It’s happening to both of us. I drew you, too. So it must be possible. Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable –”

“Must be true,” finished Sherlock for him in a breathless voice. “How did you- No. Of course you know.” He moved until he was standing right in front of John, staring down at him with a look that saw right into him, into every corner of his mind. 

John let him look, unable to keep the smile off his face. Sherlock did know him. He’d always known him, he’d just needed a nudge to get him there. Apparently shooting a serial killer was that nudge.

“I thought you were a dream,” said Sherlock, very quietly, and then he took John’s face in both his hands. 

The moment of connection was like a lightning bolt and John sucked in a breath, and then put his own hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Distantly, he was aware of the police and the flashing lights, but ignored them as Sherlock bent to press a kiss to John’s lips. The touch of his mouth felt like the final piece clicking into place, like nothing John had ever felt before.

_The first kiss of many,_ thought John, and a vision swirled through his head of a cottage and beehives, and another kiss between two much older men. He smiled against Sherlock’s mouth, and pulled him in closer.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [all I loved, I loved alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256320) by [raziella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raziella/pseuds/raziella)




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